ABCs of Harry Potter - Rook
by HollyShadow88
Summary: Stemming from an alphabet challenge, where a different character is the focus of his or her own story. A continuation of the original ABCs of Harry Potter on my page. The Grey Lady has a story, just as any who once had life, but not many know it. Until now.


Rook

**Yay, I'm back from Camp NaNo! That means more ABCS of Potter! While writing as Voldy is quite fun, writing as Tom is even more interesting. It's fascinating because they're both completely the same person and yet…not. If that even makes sense. XD I don't know, there's just something more…sinister about Tom. Maybe it's because he's still a child, yet he already has the mentality of Lord Voldemort. He lacks the ability to love, **_**and he's only a teenager**_**. He's soooo young and already lacks that basic characteristic that makes us human. That right there is **_**deep. **_**But enough metaphysical deciphering of the Harry Potter series. Right here is a scene that is discussed but never actually played out. Basically, it's when Tom confronts the Grey Lady in search of the diadem, in order to use it as a horcrux. So sit, back, relax, and possibly feel as weirded out by Tom Marvolo Riddle as I was writing it. (P.S. I feel as though this title requires a tiny bit of explanation. When I was searching around for a good R word to describe it, I came across this definition of rook: a swindler; someone who betrays. That right there hits the nail on the head for what Tom does to Helena in this story. I won't say anymore on that.)**

The Hogwarts grounds sat blanketed in a cool fog, tendrils of mist cascading languidly over one another as they filtered toward the massive castle. Though nearly the end of winter, the weather was exceptionally mild, particularly that evening. Glimpses of figures, milky and faint along their edges, could be seen crossing the jagged landscape, but the apparition that stood staring stoically across the still frozen lake was lost in the overwhelming blandness. She didn't mind, however; here, she was comfortable, surrounded by the same greys with which she shared a name. For once, the atmosphere acquainted her mood.

The Grey Lady hovered just along the water's edge, observing the Scottish fog as it made its way closer to land. She never truly appreciated or even noticed the school's landscape when it was thus cloaked in a wintery tinge while she was alive, preferring to spend her time pursuing knowledge in the hopes that she might gain notoriety equal to her famous mother's. Now, however, as she haunted the castle of her childhood hundreds of years after walking its halls with breath in her lungs and blood in her veins, she wished she had. Somehow it could not be fully adored in the proper way by someone who lacked life.

Despite the quiet, she did not observe the young man who approached behind her until his shadow loomed at her side. Automatically her form appeared to stiffen, prepared to flee as she did any other time some foolish student attempted to speak with her, but his silence drew upon her natural curiosity. He did not seem to wish to engage her, almost as if he hadn't noticed her amidst the excess of neutral colors, but she sensed this was not the case. He came with a purpose, she suspected, and damn it all if she wasn't intrigued.

She chanced a glance at the boy, recognizing him instantly. Though a Slytherin, Tom Riddle was a brilliant young man, studious and desperate for any knowledge that might allow him the chance to become greater than the unassuming child the world saw him as now. There sat great potential in the tall, lean form beside her, though his Slytherin roots left doubt as to whether it would be used for helping or hurting wizard kind. Regardless, she had spoken with him of scholarly subjects before, easing the discomfort she felt when he first approached. This boy, she thought, was safe, until his words brought her to a standstill.

"You are Helena Ravenclaw," he remarked conversationally, as though he were simply commenting on the incoming fog. Instantly she began to panic – how did he know? Where had he learned it? And what could she possibly do to discourage him from revealing it? Though her still brilliant mind raced about chaotically in search of an escape, her cool expression remained composed.

"You speak as though you have no doubt," she finally replied, keeping her gaze forward and voice distant from his. He chuckled softly, making her cringe internally.

"Unless you confirm it, there shall always be doubt," the teenager countered slowly, hands causally in his pockets. "Even then, you are more than capable of lying. It is simply a well developed yet cautionary assumption based upon facts."

Despite her unease, the ghost could not stop the admiring smirk that came to her nearly transparent lips. Clever enough to be a Ravenclaw, and she admitted to herself that she was a tad bit disappointed he wasn't. Eventually she nodded, allowing her once black hair to shift slightly to hide her eyes. "What do you seek, Mr. Riddle?" she inquired, her voice faintly probing despite her anxiety. "I severely doubt you sought me out merely to inquire of my heritage."

"I admit to feeling inquisitive," he said smoothly, inching forward to study her face. "Why hide yourself? Your dedication to Ravenclaw House is obvious, though the reasons behind it are vague unless your background is understood, but imagine the respect if it were known you are actually the heir – "

"No," she interrupted, gliding away from the young man just as he made to come closer. "They cannot know. No one must know."

"Wait!" he cried, and she noticed the carefully constructed concern laced in his pained face. "I did not mean to offend…please. I simply wish to understand, and help, if you would allow it."

The sincerity in his voice shocked her; it had been many years since any had spoken to her so, and as far as she could notice he was genuine. None of the living could be bothered worrying over the concerns of the dead, and her fellow ghosts were even less inclined to mind. Yet this boy, a Slytherin on the cusp of adulthood, appeared anxious, even worried for her. It was strange, certainly, but not entirely unwelcome. She paused, turning back to the handsome child and watching him carefully.

"Why would you care for me, Tom Riddle?" she asked quietly, misty eyebrows knit in confusion. "Why would I, the dead, a specter doomed to haunt the corridors of magic, separate yet unable to break away, matter to _you_?"

He studied her critically, dark eyes veiling his expression. "You deserve it," he stated simply, giving a slight shrug. "You once were alive, just as the rest of us. I've noticed the look about you – the regret, the anxiety, the fear. You do not share yourself with anyone, but is it by choice…or merely because no one has ever asked? I sense that something here is not right…I wish to change that, Helena. I wish to understand."

Her once bright eyes fluttered shut, her wispy hands clasping and relaxing of their own accord. He was smooth, suave in words and actions. She felt herself weakening, welcoming the unasked for yet highly demanded sympathy. In many ways, he was right; she had not shared her past with a soul, living or dead, but would she do so if provided with the opportunity? It was highly tempting…the chance to unburden herself, perhaps allow someone who could do something the chance to uncover the last relic of the brilliant Rowena Ravenclaw. Sighing jaggedly, she nodded once, eyes clenched closed.

"It began, I suppose, with the diadem…"


End file.
